I found the light in the crevice between the counter and the stove. Just a tiny glow in a thin line of space. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t trying to rescue a crumb from falling over the precipice of the counter. The kettle whistled. I peered deep in to see where the light might be coming from. The kettle trilled. I shut it off.
“Jerry!” I called. He would know where the light was coming from. Even if he didn’t know, he would say something definitive to make me feel better.
He ambled in, wearing his Saturday sweats. “Reggie, I’m watching my show. What is it now?”
I crossed my arms over my robe. “Look. Where is that coming from?”
He leaned over and his bulging eye covered the crevice. “I dunno.”
“Do you think the basement light is shining through a hole in the floor?”
“Could be. Let me check.”
He sighed going down the creaky stairs to the basement. There was only one lightbulb hanging from a chain down there. “It’s dark.” Then he cried out, “Jesus!”
“What is it?”
“God damnit. Just a mouse.” He trampled up the stairs.
“Look at it again, Jerry! It’s got to be coming from somewhere.”
“Why? What difference does it make? Maybe something fell off the back of the stove and the light is shining through it.”
I crossed my arms again.
“I want to watch my show. Can it wait?” he said.
I tapped my foot.
“Let’s at least have coffee first and then I’ll pull out the stove. Okay?”
He always had a way of rerouting me. Like the time he wanted me to wait to try the new café that opened down the street until he had a night off. They had live music, and when I drove by, I could see a string of sparkling lights around a patio where you could dance in the back garden. I would have gone with a friend or even alone, but he kept saying, Wait for me! Wait for me! I waited. A year went by, and when he did make it home in time to go, he said he was too tired, and we’d go next time. The cafe didn’t last long, maybe a year. The flyers advertising the bands are still on the windows, flapping in the wind.
***
Jerry reached back to unplug the stove, but his hands were too big. I was barely able to yank the cord out. Then he got to work. He splayed his legs the width of the stove, shimmying the stove forward. He looked like an elephant in his gray T-shirt. This was my hunter-gatherer—more gatherer than hunter. He was missing his show for this.
There the stove sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, and the space where the stove had been was covered in dust bunnies, crumbs, a moldy potato slice, and a sole chickpea. No light. Just the tile floor and all the detritus from our meals and hair and fingernail dust, probably some gnat carcasses.
“I don’t . . . understand. It’s gone,” I said. “You saw, it right? I know you did!”
Jerry ran his fingers over his sweaty hair. “I can’t explain this one,” he said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Maybe it’s an optical illusion.”
“Let’s shut off the kitchen light to see better,” I said.
I ran over and flipped the switch. We were enveloped in near darkness, the only light the cotton gray sky filtering through the small kitchen window. A heavy rain was falling. We found each other in the dark, and fell into a swaying dance, our thick socks sweeping across the floor, in the tiny space between the stove and the door.
